


Watch

by Lavellington



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-19
Updated: 2012-03-19
Packaged: 2017-11-02 05:34:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lavellington/pseuds/Lavellington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock was born, he'd consisted primarily, Mycroft had thought, of a mop of curly black hair.<br/>(Warning for background minor character death)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watch

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little post-Reichenbach piece, Mycroft POV. Thanks to Ivy for suggestions and encouragement.

_Love set you going like a fat gold watch_.  
\- Sylvia Plath, Morning Song.

 

When Sherlock was born, he'd consisted primarily, Mycroft had thought, of a mop of curly black hair. There was a tiny, chubby face sleeping underneath, and the whole brother-shaped bundle was cradled in his mother’s arms. When he went with his father to see them, she smiled at Mycroft in the way she sometimes did when she had been up at night waiting for Daddy to come home, or when Mycroft asked her too many questions. She held Sherlock close to her chest, and Mycroft stood back, clinging to his father’s hand. 

Sherlock was the most fascinating thing Mycroft had ever seen, and he watched him tirelessly- his every yawn and blink and cry. He was something new. He couldn’t disassemble his new brother and figure him out like he had with the clock in his bedroom (come to think of it, his mother hadn’t been happy about the clock, either), so he had to resort to asking his parents for information. Mycroft, already a distinguished seven years and two months old, did not give much credence to his mother’s assertion that babies were made of their parents’ love. However, he was still unclear as to the actual mechanics involved.

 

As he grew older, Mycroft came to realise that although his mother’s claim had not been true, it had not been precisely false either, at least not in their case. He also knew that love, though intangible, was a driving force he didn’t fully understand. It could create, and motivate, and destroy. He had learned this from watching their mother, who loved their father like breathing, and like bleeding. 

If his brother was made of their parents’ love, Mycroft was their silence. He was clever and effective and discreet. 

 

Mycroft grew older and wiser, and Sherlock grew into his hair and went from chubby to sharp– his eyes, his words, his poky elbows and knees. He was all questions and angles. He didn’t fit anywhere. Sherlock was driven by his need for answers, as potent and all-consuming for him as love was for others. Mycroft wondered if this was better or worse. After their mother died, Mycroft told Sherlock what she had said when Sherlock was born: _I asked her what made you, and she said “love”_. Sherlock, by then almost as tall as his older brother, didn’t reply.

 _Love set you going_ , Mycroft thought (protested), watching his brother grow up, up, and away. 

 

Mycroft watched from afar, through car windows and computer monitors, as his brother ticked along, still chasing answers as if he would grind to a stop without them. He watched as John arrived; he noted the falter in Sherlock’s rhythm. 

When Sherlock jumped, Mycroft mourned, even though he knew his brother wasn’t really dead, because if his mother had taught him anything it was the power of metaphors. He thought that maybe Sherlock finally understood it as well.

When Sherlock came back, it was for John, not for answers. When he took John’s hand, Mycroft saw them all at once– Sherlock’s birth, his death, and his return, and the force he had supposed his brother was lacking, which had brought about all three.


End file.
